


Puzzle Pieces

by valancy_joy



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/pseuds/valancy_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the little things he finds himself thinking about...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzle Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Fell into watching this series recently, and have fallen hard. Couldn't not write a little something, as a sort of a love letter ...

_The imperfections of a man, his frailties, his faults, are just as important as his virtues. You can't separate them. They're wedded. ~Henry Miller_

Lewis marvels at the way his life has changed. He certainly never pictured himself sitting on a smooth church pew in the back of a dim church watching, listening to Hathaway and his mates play whatever that stuff they play is. He quite likes some of it, but its not something he'd choose. Not really. So if his mind drifts as his friend cradles his guitar, fingers busy on its strings then surely he will be forgiven. It's the little things he finds himself thinking about.

A hand lettered sign. A choice. A pint in the setting sun.

A late night at his flat, grease-stained newspapers from the takeaway crumpled on the coffee table, empty beer bottles littered around, and the feel of a bright cashmere sock under his hand. Hathaway's impossibly long frame curled up on the end of the sofa, head propped on his arm, fast asleep with the telly playing softly in the background. A random post-case night without much conversation. But his memory of that moment is as bright and warm as that ridiculous butter yellow sock had felt, warm beneath his palm, Hathaway's toes buried between his thigh and the sofa cushion.

Hathaway's smiling indulgently in the corner of a booth in the pub trying to explain the difference between some -ism or another to him. He hopes it was helpful at the time, he has no memory of what they discussed, just the memory of sparkling eyes, and that fine golden hair glowing in the lamplight. 

The chill of a late night conversation about mistakes made, and ways forward, sitting on cold stone steps, the only warmth from the spark bright end of a cigarette, and the point where their shoulders touched. 

A fish pie for his his birthday, the mashed potatoes on top, smooth and serene.  
"I don't rate frivolousness?" he'd asked, a glint in his eye.  
"There's a cake, too Sir," had been the reply as Hathaway filled their wine glasses. 

A spruce green knit scarf for Christmas one year. Discovering months later that it was hand knit. The evidence had been there in a basket next to Hathaway's sofa. He'd had to poke the lad about it a bit. But he'd sat and watched, but didn't comment when James had picked up the needles during the movie, their gentle clicking somehow comforting. And Hathaway had flushed when he caught Lewis looking. "I learned when I was a boy. It's good. Keeps my hands busy," he'd said softly, and they hadn't talked about it again. And then there'd been a hat the next Christmas, and a soft pink blanket when Lyn had had a girl. They don't talk about it. Just the quiet thanks of a hand on the lad's shoulder as he works away at his desk. 

A pained phone call one morning while he was crunching toast. "Sorry, Sir. Will you be ... is it ... ?" And then there'd been a loud sigh, and Hathaway had gone on. "Wish I were dead. Stomach flu. Can I ...?" And he'd said all the right things, told James to wrap himself up and take care, and then he got on about his day with a strange feeling of emptiness.

The feel of a tear not his own sliding down his neck beneath his shirt. He'd gotten there after Hathaway. Gotten there to find the lad kneeling on the ground with the dead girl in his arms. He'd gone to his knees with them, tried to take the girl from James but he wouldn't let her go. "Poor lamb," he'd murmured unsure of which of them he was talking to, and James had looked at him for just a moment before he'd turned his face into the gap between Robbie's neck and coat collar, and with a gasp, wept silently.

An endless car trip to Bristol arguing the whole way. He remembers the arguing, just not what they argued about. 

Smoky laughter as they buy pint after pint and argue politics at The Trout.

A crisp cold winters night with the crunch of snow under foot, and the sing-song of bells tolling in the air, Hathaway matching him step for step.

An enthusiastic pattering of applause brings him back to the present. He sits and watches as the concert wraps up and the audience trickles out into the night. Watches his friend laughing with his mates, sees him smile and nod in conversation with the Priest. Thinks about chances and fate.

Falls in beside James as they walk out of the church, the guitar case in Hathaway's hand swinging between them.  
"I wasn't sure you'd come, Sir."  
"Well, it was this or get stuck into that paperwork, so...”  
"Fancy a pint sir?"  
"Someone once told me you were a smart lad," Lewis says with a smile, and holds the door open as the church bells begin to chime.


End file.
